Life and Death
by patemalah21
Summary: Sometimes a small incident can lead to unexpected results. Sherlock and John explore their friendship. Chapter two now up. Sherlock discovers a new arch enemy. A birthday fic for the lovely coloradoandcolorado1
1. Chapter 1

_A/N I have been a little under the weather lately, so this fic is a loving group dedication to the lovely July Birthday Girls of Mrs. Hudson's Kitchen Forum. Ladies, I wish I were up to writing a separate fic for each of you. You definitely deserve it, but I know you understand that that is a little difficult for me just now. Relax and I hope you enjoy your story. It's a departure from my regular writing as it is the first thing I've written from Sherlock's Point of view and in first person!_

_This fic is dedicated to: :MrsNoggin ,Kimberly The Owl, Daffidill, and the lovely Death Frisbee_

__**Ξ **__

**Life and Death**

Small incidents sometimes have the largest impacts. A seemingly innocuous happening can lead to life changing results. It is a curious thing that I have often observed in others. That it would happen to me was unexpected.

It was a stupid, senseless thing. One minute we were walking down the dirty back street alley arguing about a trivial thing I happened to say to upset our landlady that morning, and the next, John was overcome by two rough looking thugs who quickly had him down to the ground. I had just started forward to help when I realized that a third man, a huge lumbering brute, was behind me, his rather unpleasant grin showing several missing teeth.

"ello, wat we 'ave 'ere?, Posh one like you should 'ave somethin worth my time.'"

"This is a mugging?" I asked a little incredulously, "I think not!" I brought my right fist up in an upper cut into his face that sent shock waves up my arm to my shoulder. It was a mistake. I knew it as soon as I threw the punch. The lout merely shook his head, grinned wider, and lunged for me. Large and particularly filthy fingers clamped about my neck. I struggled to breathe as I tried to break the death grip of his hands.

"You should 'ave just given me your money," the man growled as he shoved me roughly against the brick wall. "It would have been less painful. Ere's a little gift to remember me by."

His left hand moved rapidly. There was a flash of silver and I felt a searing pain in my middle as I slid to the pavement and watched him pocket my wallet. The three men laughed and headed down to the deserted street leaving me to stare at John's crumbled form before me.

"John? John, are you okay?" I croaked feebly as I tried to staunch the blood pouring from my stomach. "John, I could use your help here, I think I'm dying."

I was okay with the thought of dying. I had long ago come to the conclusion the lifestyle I pursued made it inevitable. It was the fact that it came as a result of a simple mugging that annoyed me. The whole incident was over in less than five minutes.

**ɸ**

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock look at me!"

A voice penetrated my pain filled haze. "Look at me!" the voice demanded. I forced my eyes open and looked up into the battered face of my blogger.

"John, you are alive," I said somewhat stupidly as a lack for better words evaded me.

"Yeah, how are you?" John asked worriedly.

"I'm dying," I said.

"Not if I can help it," John declared as he fussed about me. "The ambulance is on its way. You'll be in hospital in no time at all."

The pain in my stomach was increasing. I struggled to focus on John's face.

"I don't want to die," I said, and to my surprise, I actually meant it. I had never really thought about it much. I had always assumed I would face the moment rationally and practically. I stared into John's worried face and realized I didn't want to leave him. I wanted to continue to solve mysteries and go on amazing adventures. I wanted more time.

"Just stay with me, Sherlock. You'll be in hospital soon."

"I don't like hospitals," I gasped with pain.

"You'll love this one if it saves your life," John said a little grimly. "Just hang in there mate." John's voice had a desperate tone that I knew meant that things were not good.

The sound of a distant wail of an approaching ambulance faded as the pain took over once more. Even breathing hurt. It burned and grew sharper with each second. It felt as if acid were coating my insides, and I suppose that was as accurate description as any. Obviously my stomach had been punctured and digestive juices and all manner of bacteria were free floating inside me. The pain increased to the point I knew I would pass out before long.

"John," I said desperately, "I need to tell you . . ."

"Shhh, not now. You can tell me later"

"No, I need to tell you." I gritted my teeth with the pain. "I want you to know if I don't make it, that…" I paused and huffed then bore on, compulsion forcing the words from my mouth. "That I feel...I care about you John." I gasped in pain and all the other things I wanted to say were lost in waves of agony.

"I know, Sherlock. I've always known." John told me as he stared down. Tears were running down his face freely and one of them splashed onto my cheek. "Hang in there just a few more minutes, the ambulance is pulling up now."

I don't remember the ride to hospital. I don't remember the CAT scan or the following surgery. I do remember thinking, 'This is it.' As I rode the waves of unbearable pain, I wondered in my delirium, with some curiosity as to where I would wake up, or if I would wake up at all. I hold the views of my favorite author, who once wrote: _'To die will be an awfully big adventure."_

That may come as a surprise to some of my fans. Most of the people who follow John's blog assume, since I am a scientist, that I do not believe in higher authorities or the afterlife. They do not know that I grew up under the wise and very devout views of my Grand Mere Vernet. In honor of her gentle teachings, I hold all options open for discussion.

**ɸ**

I remember waking to sounds. Little clatters and clicks of objects being manipulated about me, mixed with background mutterings. I opened my eyes but my vision was very blurry. Shadowy forms moved about me.

"Am I dead?" My mouth was dry and the words were hard to form. If this was the afterlife, I was not impressed.

One of the shadows paused and looked down at me. The figure looked bizarre, with all the sterilization clothing she wore; she looked like a cross between a frazzled lunch room lady and a hair dresser.

"Not today," She said cheerfully. "We lost you once, but we brought you back. You are a very lucky man Mr. Holmes."

"Dull," I said as I fell back to oblivion.

**ɸ**

John was permitted to see me the next day. It was mainly because of my insistent demands on the deplorable staff, but I think Mycroft had something to do with it. I had already talked with him, which was unnecessary. I had given my statement to Lestrade, who was working the case in spite of it not technically being a homicide. Mrs. Hudson had stopped by briefly. Even Molly Hooper had dropped by with a bunch of posies and her usual stuttering comments. Finally John, sitting in a wheel chair, was wheeled into my room accompanied by a nursing student.

John looked battered and tired. Somewhere inside me a small voice told me that, insisting that I see him now, while he was feeling so poorly, was not good. He had several purpling bruises that could be seen beneath a staggering amount of bandages. Two broken fingers, cracked ribs, one leg in a cast, a very black eye and possibly internal injuries I was unaware of.

"You look like hell," I told him.

"Well, you should know. I hear you made a quick trip to the underworld and back. Did you see anyone we know?"

"No," I replied shortly. I had something on my mind and I needed to get it out before I grew too tired to talk.

"John, what I said to you yesterday, in the alley, I..."

"Molly came to see me," John interrupted. That was not his usual style. "She brought me a very interesting book on words and their meanings."

I looked at my friend quizzically. I could see he was determined to continue his line of thought, so I settled back, content for now to relax to the timber of his voice. He nattered on a few minutes remarking about the various origins of words and their meanings. Some of what he said was interesting, but I confess my attention was beginning to waver until he changed the subject slightly.

"Take the word love, for example," John said.

My eyes popped open and watched him as he explained.

"In English, the word love is so imprecise. It can mean anything from I love Thai food, to my favorite football team, or the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. It gets a little confusing."

John looked at me, satisfied that he had my attention, nodded his head and continued.

"Now the Greeks were a little smarter. At least they used different words to try to keep the meanings clear. Take the word Agape for instance. It is usually translated to mean love in a 'spiritual' sense, most often connected to a love of God."

I nodded my head, I knew this and I thought I knew where John was going.

"The interesting thing is that it also refers to a sense of 'true unconditional love' which is separate from sexual love. This love is selfless, continuing even without that love being returned. It can also be described as the feeling of holding someone in high regard."

John stared at me steadily for a moment, and then continued.

"Now Eros, we are more familiar with. It means physical, passionate love mixed with sensual desire and longing." He paused and cleared his throat. "Interestingly, eros does not have to be sexual in nature. It can be interpreted as love that is deeper than the love of friendship. It can also mean an appreciation of the beauty one finds in that person or even of beauty itself. Socrates argued that even sensually-based love aspires to the non-corporeal. It strives for something that is beyond mere physical attraction."

John paused for a few moments as I pondered his words. He seemed to realize that I needed the time to sort and file away the information.

"Please continue," I encouraged him at last. None of this information was new to me, having studied Greek and Latin in school, but John's clear descriptions cast a unique light on the subject when compared to our relationship.

"Well, Philia would be next." John said. It means friendship. It includes loyalty to friends, family, and community. It requires virtue, equality and familiarity."

All of these things describe John. I thought to myself.

"The last is Storge love," John said. He paused, looked up at me with a grin. "It is an affection most often used to describe a relationship within a family. It is used to express acceptance of a situation which cannot be changed. In those cases one learns to 'put up' with the situation, as in 'loving' the tyrant."

I huffed a little and we laughed, which caused both of us to wince with pain. "Let's hold off on the humor for a while," I told him. "At least until some of our stitches have begun to heal."

"Right," John agreed. "You look exhausted Sherlock. You need to rest. All I wanted to say is that I wanted you to realize I understand that there are many levels of friendship, caring and loving. We will have time to explore and find the ones that suit us. It's all fine."

For the first time in a long, long time, I felt peace. John understood what I was trying to tell him. This strange relationship which seemed to be developing and changing was okay with him. I almost felt happy. I was definitely pleased. I felt my eyes close.

As my thoughts began to drift among the stars, I heard John say softly. "Sherlock, I'm so glad you didn't die. Sleep well."

"Me too. _To live will be an awfully big adventure," _I answered drowsily.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx

"_To die will be an awfully big adventure." J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan_

"_To live will be an awfully big adventure." Hook. 1991, Tri-Star Pictures_

_Information source for Greek words for love - Wikipedia_


	2. In Hospital

_A/N This chapter is dedicated to the lovely ColoradoandColorado1. Happy Birthday!_

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxx_

Chapter Two – In Hospital

Time passes differently when you are seriously ill. I remember desperately needing to talk to John. I remember everything we said. Once that was taken care of, I remember little else. Probably, it was because I was seemed to pass unusually slowly in a hazy dreamlike way. I do recall being allowed to hydrate my mouth with a sponge on a stick soaked in water. It was the most gratifying experience. Small things mean a lot sometimes. I drifted in and out of sleep only occasionally aware of others about me in the room. The next morning was a rude awakening.

"Mr. Holmes."

"Wake up. Mr. Holmes."

"I need to take your vitals," the nurse announced as she leaned over my body and poked a thermometer into my mouth. I grunted with distaste. I finally drift off to sleep and this moron wakes me up. I hate hospitals.

"Have you passed gas?" the idiot demanded as she listened to my stomach with a stethoscope.

I rolled my eyes. "No, nor pooped, or burped, or generally made any other bodily noise to bring to your attention," I replied sarcastically. "Actually, I do need to urinate. Pass the urinal."

Nurse Armitage, whom I had quickly come to think of as nurse Armageddon, shook her head. "Oh, you can get up and go to the facilities to do that," she assured me. "Then you can take a shower and walk a couple of laps in the hallway."

I looked at her in horror. "Madam, In case you haven't noticed, I have a puncture wound in my stomach the size of a golf ball. I can't possibly get up. Besides, you have me anchored to this apparatus." I pointed to the various bags of fluid and their box like monitors attached to the pole beside my bed.

"That's no problem, you can just take it with you," she assured me.

"Well, I don't feel like getting up," I huffed. "Go away and let me sleep in peace."

"Nonsense, you'll feel much better after you have been up and had a proper shower."

There was no arguing with the battle-axe. She was determined to have her way. Where were the nice pretty compliant nurses that seemed to hover about John when he came to visit me? They seemed to flutter and giggle about him like a clutch of crazed butterflies. All I got was the nurse from hell. She was determined to have her own way. Her tight lips clenched so firmly, I doubted the woman even knew how to smile. She wasn't ugly or deformed or anything, just big. There wasn't a delicate bone in her middle aged body or a spare pound of excess fat. The woman was built like a tank. In no time at all I found myself out of bed and propelled toward the in-suite bathroom.

"Argh," I moaned as I wobbled to the loo, rolling the IV stand with the plastic tubing attached to my arm along with me. I don't know which was in more danger of tipping over, the blasted stand or myself.

I hurt all over, but especially my stomach area. I was light headed and weak. I hated the feeling of being so out of control of my own body. I stared down in disgust at the plastic urinal in my free hand. Really, this was just too much! As quickly as possible I completed my assigned task. I was slightly concerned about the rather weak stream I had produced, but considering the trauma my body had endured, I was not surprised.

"Are you finished?" the strident voice inquired from the other side of the door. Nurse Armageddon pushed the door open and tromped inside with no regard to my privacy. She took the plastic container from my hand and held it up for inspection. "That's better than the last time," she said critically. "Really Mr. Holmes, you should not let yourself get so dehydrated. Well, we'll soon have you sorted out with all the fluids that are being pumped into you."

She eyed me with a look that seemed to say she was responsible for forcing the IV fluids and antibiotics into my body personally.

All right, let's get you into the shower," she directed.

She reached up and unsnapped the arm seam of my hospital gown causing it to hang toga style from my other shoulder. Ignoring my protests, she guided me to a corner where a small shower stall was built into the room. Once there, she removed my hospital gown with the flick of her wrist worthy of Houdini himself. I sank down on the shower bench feeling light headed and more than a little woozy.

"I can't do this," I tried to tell her. "I think I am going to faint." I leaned over and put my head up against the wall.

"Nonsense! Just rest a bit. You'll feel better in a moment." She walked out of the room and returned with a couple of towels, shower gel and a flannel. She stood just outside the small cubicle and showed me a large plastic-coated bandage square.

"Sit up now so I can stick on the waterproof covering for your wound." She shifted the unwieldy IV stand a little to the left and leaned into the shower stall.

I straightened slowly and allowed her to place the patch on my stomach.

She turned on the water, took the hand held shower nozzle, and began spraying my hair.

"What do you think you are doing? My hair needs only to be washed once a week!" I roared.

It didn't faze her. She just gave me a stern look and said, "You will feel much better after it is washed." She poured shower gel on my head and lathered it up, briskly massaging my scalp.

"That's not even shampoo," I complained. "You're using body wash, it will make my hair look terrible."

"It will make your hair look and feel clean, and that is what matters. I'll wash your back now and rinse your hair. Then I'll step out while you finish the rest of your bits and pieces yourself."

I grunted. I didn't much like being treated like a five year old, but I was just too damned exhausted to protest. The faster this ordeal was over, the quicker I could get back to bed. After she left the room, I slowly scrubbed at the rest of myself. The most difficult bit was my feet. They were just too far away and it hurt too much when I tried to bend over. I sprayed them with the shower nozzle and hoped for the best. Maybe she wouldn't notice I hadn't actually washed them. I shakily stood up and wrapped a towel about myself. That wasn't as easy as it sounds as the IV line dangling from my arm kept getting in the way. I finished my task and grabbed the rolling stand and staggered to the door. I was determined that nothing get in the way of me and my objective, the bed. I hadn't counted on my nurse nemesis.

"You look better," she observed. She stood in the doorway and snapped a fresh hospital gown about me. Once I had handed her my towel, she steered me over to the ghastly plastic upholstered recliner which was the hospital's idea of comfortable furniture.

"I want to lie down," I told her in a no nonsense voice.

"In a bit," she answered to my disgust. "You can rest in the chair and it will do you good to sit up for a while. It will also give us a chance to change the sheets on your bed." She handed me a cheap hairbrush and smiled in her no nonsense way as she walked over to the bed and began stripping the sheets off.

I was livid. The harridan was impossible. "I want to leave," I announced. "If I am home at least I will be able to rest in a proper bed."

She ignored me and left the room with the soiled laundry. I growled in frustration and drug the brush through my tangled hair. As soon as I was rested up a bit, I was determined to walk out of the place, hospital gown and all.

I must have dozed. It was late afternoon when I woke to find a male nurse leaning over me as he checked for sounds of activity in my digestive system.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. I'm Jared, your nurse for this evening. How are you feeling?"

I eyed the man, thirtyish, balding, married with at least two kids. Avid tennis or squash player, ex-military, beginning to go soft...I leaned back in my chair. I was just too tired to continue. He was boring anyway.

"Where's Nurse Ratched?" I asked.

Jared frowned for a moment, then grinned. "Oh you must mean Margaret Armitage. She's not that bad you know. I doubt if she even comes close to the horrible nurse in that movie. She's just very dedicated to her work. She just likes things to be orderly and proper."

"You could have fooled me," I grumbled. John had forced me to watch _'One flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' _and I thought the comparison was fairly accurate.

"Well, Nurse Armitage is off duty for the evening, so you have a small reprieve," Jared laughed. "How do you feel about a quick walk down the corridor and back? I promise you can lay down when we have returned. Walking will help regulate your digestive system and get you back home as quickly as possible."

I still didn't want to walk, but what he said made sense and I actually did feel a little stronger. He helped me out of my chair and we set off. I made it to the end of the hallway before I had to turn back. It was humiliating to realize how weak I had become.

Back in my room, I was finally permitted to lie down. It felt wonderful. I dozed off. Sometime in the early evening I awoke to the arrival of my evening meal. I was now on clear liquids. Disgusting stuff. I eyed the heart healthy broth with disdain. Not only was it completely lacking in salt, it was utterly tasteless. I wasn't hungry anyway. I took a cautious sip of tea and spit it out. How could anyone claim this vile swill to be tea? I glanced at the menu card on the tray. Decaffeinated! No wonder it was horrid. I pushed the tray away.

"You really should eat some of that."

I looked up as John hobbled into the room, leaning heavily on a cane to support his walking cast.

"It's inedible," I told him.

John glanced at the tray and winced in sympathy.

"How about the jelly? You can't do much to ruin jelly."

I looked at the small bowl of lime jelly which had been cut into bite sized cubes. I picked up a cube in my fingers and dropped it onto the tray. It bounced. I looked at John and we both laughed.

"It can't be that bad. Try it." John encouraged.

To please him, I popped the green square into my mouth and chewed. Actually, it wasn't that bad. I secretly decided to finish it off after John left the room. I looked up and caught him grinning at me.

"What?" I asked.

"Oh nothing," he answered. "I am being released in the morning."

"You are going to leave me here to suffer alone?"

"You will have plenty of visitors. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will come and Molly will pop up from the morgue. You won't want for company," John assured me.

I scowled. It wasn't fair that he got to go home and I was stuck her for at least two more days.

"I want to go home now," I said.

"I'm sure you do, but it will have to wait until the antibiotics are finished. You are too ill to be home on your own anyway."

"I would have you," I said with a pout.

"A case of the blind leading the blind, I'm afraid. I'm just not up to caring for your needs. It will be only a couple of more days. Relax and enjoy it."

"That's easy for you to say, you don't have the nurse from hell to torture you . . . What?!" I said as I caught him grinning at me again.

"Nothing."

I narrowed my eyes. He was up to something. "Tell me," I demanded.

"Oh hell," John swore softly and fished a mobile out of the pocket of his dressing gown and quickly snapped my picture. He looked up at me and giggled. Giggled!

"Where did you get that mobile, and why did you take my picture?"

John just looked at me and giggled again.

"John…"

"Mycroft sent me a new phone as a thank you for saving your life," he said.

"Humph!" I snorted. "Mycroft has his insidious fingers everywhere. Why did you take my picture?"

"Oh, I just thought I would try out the camera feature." He glanced at phone and laughed. "It takes excellent photos."

"Let me see."

"Oh I'm not sure that would be wise. You might burst a few stitches," John laughed.

"John!" I roared. "Give me the phone!"

Instead of handing the mobile to me he turned it around so I could see the photo displayed on the screen. My worst fears were confirmed. My picture was hideous. I was frowning and my hair . . . my hair was horrendous. I looked like a dandelion gone to seed! I clapped my hands on my head in an effort to push the wayward mess into submission, but I could feel it spring back with a vengeance. John just laughed and took another picture.

"Delete those pictures!" I told him sternly.

"Nah, I think they are cute," John answered with a grin.

I grabbed a glass of water off the dinner tray and soaked my hair. I wondered desperately if Molly had some mousse or hair spray in her locker and determined to give her a call as soon as John left the room. I glared at my flat mate.

"Delete those pictures." I snapped.

John just stood up and grinned wider. "I plan to post a blog entry as soon as I get home. I've been making notes about our adventure in mugging." He waved the mobile cheerfully in the air. "These pictures will be perfect. I suspect they may become more popular than the hat picture!" He waved goodbye and left the room laughing.

I struggled to get out of bed and to chase him down, but flopped wearily back when I realized I was just too weak and sore to manage getting up on my own. I hate hospitals. Right at this moment, I hate John Watson.


	3. Going Home

_A/N Here it is. The final chapter of this story. Enjoy!_

**Going Home**

The last two days have been hell. Literally. Nurse Armitage seems to feel it is her duty to continue to persecute me. Her jabs and pokes about my person are endless and overly rough and unnecessary in my opinion. When I informed her of this fact, she just grunted and told me to stop complaining. I can't believe the hospital board has not had her replaced. Surely they don't want such an unprofessional attitude to represent their nursing staff.

Nurse Armitage is insistent that her orders be followed to the letter. I have showered, shaved, and been frog marched up and down the corridor more times than I care to recall. My bodily fluids have been collected and criticized. Apparently even my blood is defective. There is no pleasing or placating the woman.

Mycroft stopped in today to wish me well and smirk at my dilemma. I swear he is the most unfeeling of siblings. There is no sympathy from his direction, not that I expect or desire any. He did present me with a new mobile of which I am marginally grateful. It is an improvement over my old one which was stolen in the mugging. At least setting it up is mildly entertaining and I can now text John.

**ɸ**

"Knock, knock. Are you decent?"

I look up as Molly Hooper comes around the half drawn curtain surrounding my bed.

"Of course," I say, and I can see a tiny glimmer of disappointment on her face. I shift a little in the bed to allow my hospital gown to ride up on my legs. I smirk as Molly's eyes widen and I am tempted to roll over on my side and give her a better show. I decide that would not be wise. I am too sore for that much movement and Molly would probably melt into a puddle. I can't have my pathologist fainting on me.

"I-I brought you some coffee," she stammers. "I made it myself, just the way you like."

I perk up. Coffee sounds wonderful after the swill I have been served lately.

"Is it decaffeinated?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. But it is a special blend and I think you will like it." Molly tells me as she holds out the travel cup.

I cautiously take a sip. It's actually quite good. Not that I will admit it of course. She looks at me in expectation.

"It's tolerable," I say and she sighs with relief. I might have as well told her it was fantastic. It is a game we play.

"I hear you may go home tomorrow."

I nod and take another sip. It is excellent coffee, its rich flavor glides across my taste buds enticing me to drink more fully.

"Yes, and none too soon. I'm dying of boredom."

Molly just nods sympathetically and then launches in on a story about one of her more interesting post mortems. That's one of the things I appreciate about Molly. She understands my need for diversion.

"It was fairly clear cut, an open and shut case," Molly giggles.

"Don't make jokes Molly," I tell her. She just rolls her eyes and grins at me before continuing her story.

"Samuel Douglas, sixty-seven years old, a retired army major," she states. "He choked on large mass of some sort of green plastic. It was still lodged in his throat. It wasn't until I opened him up that I figured out what was going on." She looks at me expectantly.

"Pica," I said. "An eating disorder typically defined as the persistent ingestion of nonnutritive substances, most often occurring in children and pregnant women."

"Yes," Molly agreed. "But recently there has been an upsurge of pica among men who are body builders. They tend to starve themselves in order to reduce their body fat. This seems to have been the case for poor Mr. Douglas. His health records indicate his concern for keeping fit. What do you think I found in his stomach?"

I see her grin. What would a retired army officer eat that is green and plastic? Grenades are metallic, bullets aren't plastic. I shake my head.

Not enough information," I say.

Molly laughs. She always enjoys stumping me. Not that it happens often. Sometimes, I confess, I allow her to win.

"Green plastic toy army men! He bit off their heads first, then chewed the bodies up and swallowed them. I counted over a hundred and thirty heads plus the bodies," she says.

"An army travels on its stomach," I quote. "Or in this case, in the stomach."

Molly snickers. We both break out into laughter.

At this point we are interrupted by Nurse Armitage, who arrives carrying a large box of supplies.

"I'm afraid you will have to excuse us," she tells Molly. "I need to change his dressing."

"Oh, of course," Molly says as she stands and prepares to leave.

"You don't have to go," I tell her as I give the nurse a frown.

"It's okay. I really need to get back to the lab. Text me when you get home tomorrow," Molly says as slips from the room.

"Well, your lady friend seems to be doing you some good," Nurse Armitage observes. "This is the first time I have heard you laugh."

"She's not my lady friend," I tell her. "She's my pathologist!" How has she come up with a crazy idea that Molly is my girlfriend?

"Oh, well excuse me," Nurse says calmly, then looks me in the eye and grins. "You don't look as if you are in need of a pathologist just yet. If you don't mind my saying, I think you have done an excellent job of recuperating so far."

I stare at her. Is she making a joke? Before I can respond her grin fades and she becomes all business.

"Right, you know of course, due to the nature of your wound, the surgeons decided it would be best to allow it to heal from the inside out, rather than closing it off completely. When we removed the drainage tube yesterday, we packed it with a sterile gauze strip to absorb fluids. Today I am installing a wound-vac. It will suck the fluids away and allow your wound to heal twice as fast as using gauze strips alone."

I watch in fascination as she removes the gauze strip and replaces it with a long strip of sponge like material. She uses a cotton swab on a long stick to poke it down into my stomach.

"That looks like weather stripping that you put around windows and doors to stop drafts."

"Yes, it's the same material, only sterile medical grade of course. It is very absorbent."

After she finishes with the packing of my wound, she attaches a patch of clear plastic material over the opening and secures the edges with strong adhesive tape, pokes a hole in the plastic sheet and inserts a tube which she secures with more adhesive tape. The tube, which now extends from my stomach, is attached to a small pump and feeds into a small receptacle which will collect the fluids as they are vacuumed from my body.

When she turns the vacuum on, I feel a slight tingle. The plastic covering flattens to my skin as the excess air is removed.

"Do you feel any pain?"

"No, I don't feel much of anything. There's a sensation of slight pressure, like someone placing a tight plaster to the skin, but nothing else."

"Good. That's the way it is supposed to feel. If you have pain or if it makes loud bubbling sounds, the seal has been compromised. Try putting more adhesive tape over the whole area. If that doesn't work, we may have to remove everything and replace it with a new bandage. It's not rocket science. I'm sure you will be able to figure it out. Of course it goes without saying Mr. Holmes, this technology is very expensive. The pump alone causes more than twenty thousand pounds. I urge you to treat the equipment gently."

"And how long do I have to walk about tied to this machine?"

"Not long at all. Maybe two or three weeks. It depends on your body's ability to heal itself."

"Two or three weeks!" I stare at her in horror. "I can't go about London with a machine strapped to my stomach for two or three weeks!"

"First, you will be too tired to go about London much. And second, the pump has a handy leather carrying case with a shoulder strap. It is very discreet. I doubt if many people will even notice it. The rechargeable battery pack lasts four to six hours. Plenty of time for any venturing out you may do. When you are resting or sleeping it can be plugged into the wall."

She gathers her materials up. "Cheer up Mr. Holmes. This will all be over before you know it." She pats my knee and bustles out of the room.

What in the world? What is the pat on the knee all about? Had she just tried to humor me? I hate being humored! I think I like her better as the nurse from Hell.

**ɸ**

The morning flew by. In no time I am sitting in the back of Mycroft's limo as it pulls up to 221b

"You don't have to come with me." I tell him.

"It's no bother, besides, I wouldn't miss this for the world." He says rather cryptically.

I admit, the stairs are a challenge. I am glad for Mycroft's shoulder. It is a relief to get to the top and enter the flat. John is sitting in his chair. His foot is propped up and he is enjoying a fresh cup of tea.

"You look better." I tell him.

"So do you."

Before I can say anything else, Nurse Armitage appears from the kitchen.

"Welcome home, Mr. Holmes. Would you like a cup of tea?"

My mouth drops open. "What are you doing here?"

"Your very considerate brother has hired me for special duty while you recuperate," Nurse Armitage smiles. "Now sit down and relax. I don't want you to push yourself too fast and endanger your recovery."

"Mycroft!" I yell at his disappearing back. "You get back here, now!"

"No need to thank me brother," His voice floats back as he reaches the outside door.

"Now sit down Mr. Holmes, before you fall down," my very own private nurse from Hell commands. I look over to John for support. He grins and takes a sip of tea.

It's going to be a long recovery.


End file.
